Something About Nietzsche
by quotient
Summary: A hunt can end one of two ways.


A/N: Written prior to DMB, so not canon. Definitely constitutes AU.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine, don't sue

**Something About Nietzsche **

The first punch broke his nose. The second knocked him out. He woke up a little while later, his cheek pressed against the cool cement and his nose throbbing angrily. He was surprised to find himself alive and well. He'd genuinely thought it was the end of the line.

He got up gingerly, his head pounding. When he brought his hand up to touch the side of his head, he found a lump forming. He didn't know how long he'd been out, but it was still night time and that was all he needed to know. He left the parking lot quickly, his footsteps loud in the un-city like silence.

At the gas station, he slipped into the washroom. Looking in the mirror, he grimaced, his face looked terrible. Blood had dried on his upper lip and some had landed on his chin. His cheek was scraped from his fall, and the lump felt as though it had gotten bigger. He turned on the tap, grabbed a paper towel, and scrubbed. It didn't take much; he wasn't looking for a permanent solution yet. He just needed to be able to wander in public without being pulled over by the cops. The only problem was his swollen nose. He knew that it would heal crooked, never be the same nose it was before, but that wasn't important. It wasn't likely very many people would comment on it. People overlooked things like broken noses on young men the same way they overlooked broken arms on kids. The nose wasn't important, and the hunt had to be finished tonight or one of them would lose their nerve.

He left the gas station, the employee behind the counter looking at him funny. Outside again, and the air was getting colder. The smell of frost was strong and his breath came out in a white mist that disappeared almost instantly.

He didn't know where he was going or how he was going to find what he was looking for, but his feet kept walking. He knew the hunting grounds well. He fell in step behind a group of young women laughing loudly and ready for a night on the town. He followed them closely, head down, playing shy. One of them chatted on her cell phone and she half-glanced at him, a funny expression on her face. He wondered what she saw before she looked away again, drawn into the sway of too many conversations.

Eventually they turned off the main street, away from other crowds. He chose a more discrete route behind them, surprised when they turned into a small courtyard. He hesitated then, unsure. There was no reason for him to keep going. The women opened the church door and disappeared out of the cold. From where he stood, he could hear the steady beat of music, just loud enough to indicate some sort of concert. Taking a deep breath, he crossed the street and pulled open the same door the women had only a few minutes ago.

The pimply-faced eighteen-year old forced him to pay a five dollar entry fee. He was directed through two more solid wood doors and down a long corridor. He stopped before the last set of doors. The music was loudest here. He reached out slowly, preparing himself for what he would see.

The doors swung open so much more easily than the others had, and he knew this was the right place. There was a burst of heat and the smell of too many sweaty bodies in a confined space. He stepped into the room. The ceiling pulsed with flashing blue and orange lights, on and off according to beats and moods. Thousands of twenty-somethings crowded together in front of the pews, swaying their bodies maniacally to beats, attempting to dance and not quite making it, being too close and self-conscious, and just too young overall to really feel the music. On stage the small group screamed twisted lyrics that blended into indecipherable guitar rifts, occasionally crying about love and the girl and how to fight the system.

This was someplace Dean wouldn't be caught dead in.

He pushed his way through the crowd, closer to the front. The lead singer spoke into the microphone, his words interspersed with heavy breathing.

"We do the next set blindfolded."

And the entire audience pulled out their own blindfolds, pieces of ripped fabric that they tied around their eyes, laughing at the ingeniousness of it all. It made his job that much more difficult as his eyes scanned the crowd looking for the one out of place; and there he was with a young woman, helping her with a blindfold.

They made eye contact, and the hands pulled away from the firmly tied cloth, a shadow melting away into the people, towards the side exit. He cursed softly under his breath pushing past the swaying, blind, crowd. His head was pounding in time with the music.

He stumbled out of the exit and into the night air, picking up speed. He had to be fast, but everything in him wanted to move insurmountably slowly. He stopped when he realized he had lost what he was looking for.

"Sammy?" The voice was low and soft, but very clear. He turned, his body moving swiftly to face the shadow near the street entrance. "I was gonna let you go."

Sam closed his eyes, the stake shoved into the back of his jeans and hidden by his coat moved uncomfortably against his back.

"I know. But I can't let you go."

"That's a first." The tone was so self-deprecatingly ironic and so close that Sam opened his eyes in surprise. His once-brother had closed the distance between them so quietly that Sam hadn't even heard him.

Sam didn't hesitate as Dean went for his throat.

When the air was full of ashes, Sam had enough time to wonder how much of a person survives if they can walk across hallowed ground but not hold a cross.

He supposed it didn't really matter. He wiped the ashes from his eyes and turned away, leaving the stake where it had fallen. There was still one more thing to hunt before Sam could call it quits.


End file.
